


make amends

by Summerlightning



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:20:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/711680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Summerlightning/pseuds/Summerlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rolled out flat, the sleeping bag looked like a square of fresh sod or a long lollipop-poisoned tongue.</p>
<p>Or:  Bonnibel spends the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make amends

\---

Bonnibel showed up at her doorstep disgruntled and dripping wet, a green sleeping bag stuffed under her arm.  Her tiara glistened.  Her shoes squelched.  She said, “Finn blew up my castle.”  Then she promptly brushed past Marceline and set up shop in her living room.  Rolled out flat, the sleeping bag looked like a square of fresh sod or a long lollipop-poisoned tongue.  Marceline grinned.  
  
“Cool.  Intentionally blew it up or—”

From the sleeping bag Bonnibel unearthed a pillow.  “There was much talk of a supreme burrito monarchy and a subsequent elder quest involving a divine guacamole god.”  She fluffed the pillow.  “Now there is much talk of nothing because Finn and I are not speaking until he at least reestablishes the walls of my bedroom,” she said stiffly.  Studying Marceline across a seam, she chewed her cheek’s corner—let out her breath and said, “I know you and I aren’t exactly plumsicles at this precise moment, Marceline, and maybe this is an awkward request because of that, but I was hoping maybe I could—”

Marceline held up her hands.  Her bare palms flashed in the light coming out the kitchen, pale pearlescent gray.  “Save the speech, princess.  It’s cool.  I don’t care if you stay.”

Bonnibel smiled cautiously.  Beneath her drenched brow her eyes were stern, though.  “Ah-huh.  Do you care if I leave?”

They stared at each other a moment.  Marceline dropped her hands.  Her mouth pulled sideways and Bonnibel held her pillow the same way a squire might hold a shield, squeezing damp fingerprints into the sides of it.  “Sheesh”—Marceline quit the contest finally to float toward the kitchen—“speaking of awkward.”  Her voice rose.  Her hair drifted over her shoulder in a seeping cloud.  “Don’t be such an enormous buttnugget.  Put your stuff upstairs, take the bed.  It’s not like I use it.”

Wordless and maybe humble—though Marceline doubted it very much—Bonnibel rolled up the sleeping bag again.  She kicked off her wet shoes and left them crossed at the door in a spreading puddle:  halfway up the ladder to Marceline’s bedroom she slipped and cursed, and her sock squeaked on the rung.

“Need help?”  Marceline peered from the kitchen doorway.  Her mouth was still pulled sideways, not quite a smile nor a sneer.  Bonnibel huffed.  She said no.  Slippery socks aside, she hoisted the sleeping bag determinedly and disappeared upstairs.

Not long later her head came down through the hole in the ceiling.  Her tiara was gone.  A faint line in her hair marked where it had been before.  “When I came up the porch a few minutes ago,” she said, “did I hear a blender?  Or was that the rain?”

Marceline leaned over the counter with a tall cup clasped in her long sooty fingers.  She set it down—knocked her nail on the rim, _tak-tak_.  “Strawberry-banana smoothie,” she said.  The liquid in the cup was a second cousin to orange, married to pink, and Bonnibel felt her teeth sting just looking at it.  Marceline asked, “Or did you get a new favorite?”

“No.”  Bonnibel vaulted down the ladder one-handed.  In her free palm she exhibited a box.  It rattled cheerfully as she shook it side to side.  “I brought Red-Hots.  Extra spicy.  My, uhm”—they tried to stare at each other again and neither of them could manage it, not quite—“my own recipe, you know.  I guess if you like you can try them.”

They traded box for cup.  Marceline mumbled something about a movie.  Bonnibel mumbled something back about how that would be nice, and a few minutes later they folded gingerly down next to one another on Marceline’s sofa.  Jutting springs in two of the three cushions forced them both into the sofa’s corner, but their hips mushed together without much rubbing and Bonnibel committed caution in where she aimed her elbows.

The evening went on.  The movie sucked.  (When the heroine fell swooning and fetishized into her sculpted male sidekick’s arms, Marceline explained, “I bummed it from Finn.”) 

Outside it continued to rain.

—-

“Marceline?” Bonnibel asked.  It was half past one in the morning and Marceline’s bedroom was black as a peach pit, stippled too with the intermittent _ticka-tip_ tappings of water on the roof.  “Are you still awake?”

A floorboard somewhere in the house sighed.  The bed sagged.  Marceline was sitting on the edge of it.  “Yeah.  ’Sup?”

Bonnibel considered.  She squinted.  She thought maybe she could make out Marceline’s shoulder in the darkness, a vague pointy bit of shadow—then Marceline looked at her and her eyes were tinged an eerie, effervescent yellow-green.  Bonnibel reached for her.  Marceline let her, and the princess felt for the familiarity of her face, her hair, her ears one by one.  Mapping.  Measuring.

“Finn did blow up my castle but the renovations required weren’t so drastic that my departure was exactly necessary,” she found herself saying, and then, “this is terribly selfish by every standard.  I’m sorry.”

Marceline took hold of the blanket.  She lifted it, crawled beneath—replaced it and slithered into the space alongside Bonnibel.  Their hips rubbed again.  Bonnibel found and held one of Marceline’s.  Marceline said, “Be sorry if you want, but scoot over in the meantime.  You’re hogging the stupid pillow.”

Bonnibel sat up, defiant and straightbacked.  “I brought my _own_ , I’ll have you know—”

“Soaking wet.”  Belting an arm about her middle, Marceline heaved her back down.  They swatted at each other.  Swung.  The sheets tangled— _they_ tangled, the pillow in question went rocketing off into the dark and Bonnibel yelped and Marceline laughed.  Bonnibel kicked.  The piston of her elbow slid against the slope of a bare stomach and Marceline shivered, shrieked.

They paused.

“Oh,” Bonnibel said, remembering.  She made a spidery shape with a hand—sent it skittering over Marceline’s ribs.  Marceline squirmed desperately.  Her teeth clacked in her mouth.  Their shoulders knocked.  Their foreheads.  Bonnibel’s breath went stuttering out and Marceline dissolved into screamy, stumbling giggles.

“Please!” she begged hoarsely.  “No, please—”

Bonnibel kept after her—chased shadows she couldn’t see down skin the same.  Marceline’s laughter broke.  Bubbled.  It drowned out the rain.


End file.
